


Transforming the Furies

by Melina



Category: Highlander
Genre: Angst, M/M, h/c, hl, wallow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-10-26
Updated: 1998-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 00:42:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melina/pseuds/Melina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can love cleanse a soul? Remove an unspeakable burden?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transforming the Furies

The dream is always the same.

I’m in a canoe, paddling down a wide river on a bright, warm day. I can feel the heat of the sun, the gentle breeze stirring the air as the canoe glides smoothly through the water. It reminds me of the time I spent with the Sioux, when the land and air were clean, and the country seemed so huge that people could never possibly fill all of the empty, peaceful space.

Suddenly, the river narrows until I can push off from one side and reach the other. And the bright sunlight fades into darkness, the air becoming thick with fog. But I can still see the people on each side of the bank. On the east side of the river are all of the people I've ever killed: mortals in battle, Immortals in the Game, those I killed out of vengeance or hate, even those few I have killed because they asked me to end their pain or preserve their honor. My most cunning enemies like Horton and Kronos. My dearest friends like Sean and Richie. On the west bank are all of the people I failed in life -- those who I was responsible for and failed to protect, and those whose expectations I couldn't meet. People I disappointed like my father and Darius. Lovers I couldn't keep safe -- from Debra to Tessa and so many in between -- Louise and Little Deer and Diane and so many others...

So many people on each side of the riverbank, and at first they just watch me pass by. But soon, they start to call out, "Why, Duncan? Why did you fail so many times? Why did you kill us? Who are you to judge us? Who are you, Duncan MacLeod? Do you know who you are?" The voices grow, blending into each other to form a cacophony of grief, a chorus of disappointment, an orchestra of pain.

I can see an island ahead in the middle of the river. Someone is there, but I can't make out who it is. My heart is in my throat, beating so fast I'm certain it will burst, and I try to paddle faster and faster, but the ghosts are relentless. Their voices grow louder and more shrill, and the more I paddle, the narrower the river becomes, and the island seems to slip farther and farther away. The banks are closing in on me, the dead are getting closer and closer -- and then they are upon me, overwhelming me, demanding explanations I cannot provide; falling upon me with swords, judging my actions as I have judged so many others...

~~~~~~~

I jerk awake, sitting straight up in bed, the vividness of the dream temporarily overwhelming me as I gasp air into my lungs and wipe the sweat from my face. I drop my head back onto the pillow again. Ahriman is gone, but the dream remains; the unending souvenir of my unforgivable, inexplicable act.

I spoke the truth when I told Joe that Ahriman had used me as a weapon to kill Richie. My brain knows it's the truth. The demon couldn't shake my faith in Richie no matter how or what it tried. It appeared as Horton so I would question Joe's loyalty. It appeared as Kronos to remind me of Methos' past. But there was no vision it could conjure and no hallucination it could cause to make me doubt my faith in Richie. Over the years I'd had many doubts about Richie: doubts about his judgment, his maturity, his ability to survive the Game. But from the first days we spent together, I never doubted his loyalty.

And I didn't realize how much I had grown to depend on Richie until he was gone.

When he first came into my life, he was a just a kid, a month short of his eighteenth birthday. Brash, impetuous, the product of a difficult modern upbringing. It was really a wonder he hadn't already become far worse than a petty thief. At first I thought he was going to be a nuisance, another obligation -- my quiet twelve years with Tessa were over, the Game was back in my life again. An obnoxious pre-Immortal thief was the last thing I needed. But I'd told Connor that I would watch out for him, and I meant it.

Talking Tessa into letting him move in and work for us without revealing his latent pre-Immortality was one of the most difficult conversations we'd had in twelve years, and it came so soon after Slan Quince's appearance shattered the illusion of our quiet life together. If I had merely explained that Richie was destined to be Immortal, it would have been enough of a challenge. But as much as I trusted Tessa, I couldn't ask her to bear the burden of keeping that incredible secret from him. So I didn't, and instead I came up with the explanation about understanding what it meant to be alone in the world with no family, wanting to give Richie a chance for a life away from the streets. And because she was a truly remarkable, generous woman, she did as I asked and welcomed Richie Ryan into our home.

It probably didn't hurt to point out that Richie had already seen too much, and I needed to keep an eye on him so we didn't find Geraldo Rivera camping out on our doorstep. I hated having to practically lie to Tessa when that mess with Richie's "dad" came up. I knew, of course, that Jack Ryan or whatever he called himself was no more Richie's father than I was. Richie might live to be a thousand, but he would never know his father. He had learned about Immortals though, right after he came to live with us. He accepted it with more ease than nearly anyone I'd told, with the unique way the youthful mind has of expanding to accept even the most unbelievable. He actually seemed relieved that there was a logical explanation for the swords, the "light show," and two dead men crawling out of the river.

Even though the circumstances under which Richie had become part of our lives were unusual, he became part of our little family that fall. Yet, like so many foster children, he seemed unsure of his place in our hearts. When I told Tessa that she should take the job in Paris, he thought it was all over, that we were leaving him behind. He was so thrilled when I handed him that plane ticket; if Tess hadn't been so upset and worried about leaving me to face Grayson, it truly would have been a moment to savor.

Paris was a whole new world for him, so different that it might as well have been another planet. And despite his screw-ups, he flourished there, thriving like a sapling in the sunlight. When we returned to the States, he seemed happy to be home, and thrilled at the news that Tessa and I planned to marry.

And then it all ended in a single moment -- Richie's mortal life and Tessa's life altogether. The family we'd created disappeared in the blink of an eye. The mugging hadn't happened because of anything to do with Immortals, but if it hadn't been for me neither one of them would have been there at that moment -- Pallin Wolf never would have kidnapped Tessa in the first place. It was stupid, so stupid to let them walk out of there alone.

I sigh and turn over on my stomach, closing my eyes. I know it will do no good. It's still dark out, but I doubt there will be anymore sleep for me tonight. All of the ghosts swirl around the empty, grey barge. All of my failures and mistakes.

I failed Richie after Tessa died. No question about it. I was so miserable, so caught up in my own grief that I couldn't see past it to help Richie cope with his own shock and loss. He'd lost the woman who had been the closest thing he'd ever had, ever would have, to a mother. He'd also lost his own mortality, his chance at a simple life, his opportunity to grow and mature before facing the life and death stakes of the Game. But I couldn't deal with him then, in those days following her death. I couldn't share our grief for fear of breaking down in front of him. Couldn't talk to him about Immortality for fear of revealing the slight twinge of utterly illogical resentment that it was Richie and not Tessa who had revived on that dark street. It was utterly unfair that I didn't take him with me; he should have been at her funeral. But my own selfishness won out. It was pure luck that he didn't lose his head in those days he spent alone in Seacouver after Tessa's death, alone and untrained and weaponless.

I took her body home to Paris. I called Fitz, and he met me at the airport. I hadn't called anyone else, but Fitz must have spread the word, because friends appeared at the funeral. The Valicourts. Grace Chandel. Anton Legris and his mortal wife. They were all so sympathetic and solicitous, but I couldn't bear it, couldn't stand their gentle comforting for fear of falling apart. Right after the funeral I returned to the barge alone, and I must have spent two or three days just walking around, gazing at Tessa's sculptures and remembering each moment we'd spent here. Making love in front of the fireplace. Sitting up all night talking in bed. Cuddling on the sofa. I could still feel her presence here, but unlike the antique store I had so quickly left behind, here in "our city" I smothered myself in it, just curling up for hours on end and crying until no tears were left.

I didn't know what I was going to do. Tessa had been such a huge part of my life for a dozen years, my source of joy and love and passion. The idea of going on without her -- alone -- was unbearable. I thought about walking the streets of Paris until I found another Immortal to challenge, so I could lose my head in a fight. I thought about disappearing, leaving Duncan MacLeod and his life behind once and for all. I thought about retreating to Holy Ground and staying there for a few years. Or decades.

I couldn't make a decision, so I just stayed on the barge. Not eating. Not sleeping (unless you call passing out from incredible quantities of alcohol "sleeping.") Ignoring my friends and the responsibility I'd left back in Seacouver. My friends came by and called, but I sent them away and ignored the telephone. They seemed at a loss to know what to do with me. What an awful, hopeless time that was.

~~~~~~~

It had been three days since her funeral, and I was still an utter wreck.

The knock on the door was both loud and persistent.

"Go away!" I shouted. I didn't know who it was, and I didn't care.

"Duncan MacLeod!" barked a familiar voice. "Open the door!"

I blinked a few times, the realization of who the voice belonged to surprising me out of my stupor.

"Now, Duncan, or so help me I'll break it down." The voice was a bit softer, but no less determined.

I yanked the door open and found myself face to face with Connor MacLeod, my kinsman and teacher. After a single glance, his eyes reflected how awful I looked. But he didn't say anything, didn't offer trite words of condolence. He simply dropped his small bag and gave me one of those overwhelming Connor MacLeod hugs. Connor is not a large man, and he doesn't hug many people, but when he offers his embrace he does so not just with his body but with the power of his entire being, capturing you inside of his protective strength with all he has to offer.

After Connor found me in the Highlands, I finally learned that I wasn't a demon after three long, lonely years. Connor's revelations were a stunning relief, but it was still a long time before the nightmares about my father's rejection went away. I would wake up in the middle of the night, gasping and sobbing with the pain of Ian MacLeod's condemnation, inevitably waking Connor up as well. He hadn't spoken then, either. He would just hold me until the shaking stopped, and I went back to sleep.

The sense-memory of Connor's comforting embrace sent me over the edge I'd been teetering on for days, and for the first time since the night Tessa died, I cried for her in front of someone else.

"She's gone, Connor," I said through a veil of tears. The beautiful, vibrant woman he'd met just a year ago was dead, killed for a few dollars and a car. And without her, I was lost.

"I know, Duncan."

He patiently waited for me to cry it out and then packed me off to shower and shave. When I returned, the barge had been tidied up, the crumpled bed linen changed, the empty bottles cleared away. He handed me clean clothes, and after I'd dressed, we left the barge, the first time I'd been outside in days. It seemed like months.

We walked and walked, all over the Left Bank, and everywhere I looked I saw reminders of Tessa. We walked past Darius' church, where Tessa and I had reunited the last time we'd come to Paris. We walked past the Sorbonne where she had studied, and we walked through the Jardin du Luxembourg, the site of many moonlit walks and sunny picnics. We walked all the way up the hill to the cemetery, and when we reached Tessa's grave, I cried again. Connor waited until it passed and then wrapped an arm around me and led me home.

There were boxes by the door of the barge. I don't know when he had ordered groceries, but we carried the food into the galley. While he prepared a simple meal, I started talking, just rambling on and on, sharing any memory of Tessa I could think of, nearly frantic to speak the words lest the memories slip away. Connor nodded or smiled or laughed at the stories. I talked all through dinner, although Connor was carefully watching to make sure I actually ate, and then I talked long into the night, until finally exhaustion claimed me and I slept.

It was nearly noon the next day when I woke up, and Connor was still there, offering coffee this time, which I took gratefully.

"How're you feeling?" he asked.

I nodded, mumbling that I was better, thanks to the decent food and the sleep. He allowed me to finish my coffee and shower again.

But once I returned, Connor lit into me like a lightning storm.

"Duncan," his voice was quiet, intense, his eyes burning into me. I tried not to flinch. "What the hell were you thinking, leaving that boy alone and unprotected back there?"

Richie. I'd been so occupied with my own grief that I hadn't thought of him since I'd boarded the plane in Seacouver. My cheeks flamed red with shame at my selfishness, my lack of consideration for him.

"I know you're grieving, Duncan," Connor continued, "and God knows you're entitled, but that boy is grieving too. And he needs his teacher. You're it, so get your ass back there and do what needs to be done."

I was on a plane that night.

~~~~~~~

I turn onto my side, curling my knees against my chest, but the fetal position doesn't protect me from the memories. I can still feel the shame I felt under Connor's criticism.

I found Richie the morning I arrived back in Seacouver. In response to my apology, he said that he understood my need to be alone. But I still wasn't over blaming myself for everything that had happened, and I took it out on him in the dojo until he called me on it.

Richie was good at that, calling me on my behavior when I was being pig-headed and unreasonable. But sometimes he was just plain wrong and wouldn't listen to anything I had to say. It got worse and worse and ultimately led me to send him away after he took Mako's head. It had to be done, but in hindsight, of course, I realized I'd done it the wrong way. It was so hard to push Richie away like that; I cared for him as a person, and I clung to him because he was the last vestige of my life with Tessa. I had turned my back _to_ him so he wouldn't see the tears in my eyes, but he thought that I was turning my back _on_ him. I wasn't. I just couldn't bear the thought of letting him see me cry. It was too much like the night Tessa died.

Even though he was a mess, I was pleased to see him in Paris again -- even after I realized what was going on. Hyde's was not a challenge I longed to take, and I really didn't know whether I could beat him or not. There was a point during that fight when I was sure that this was it, and I was going to lose my head. Maybe Richie would have been better off if I had.

But I didn't, and despite the friction that cropped up, we remained close over the next two years. Through my relationship with Anne and his racing career and the mess with Kalas and the havoc Amanda wreaked whenever she turned up. He matured and learned to see the world through his own eyes. On occasion he convinced me I was wrong, and his reasoning led me to change my mind. It was because of Richie that Paul Markum learned that his wife's murder had been avenged. On occasion he still drove me crazy, his stubbornness exasperating me to the point where I wanted to strangle him out of sheer frustration, like during the whole Kristin fiasco. And other times he quietly impressed me with his cool head and warm heart, like the day Anne's baby was born. But through it all, I never questioned our closeness, the specialness of our relationship. I don't think he did either.

Until the Dark Quickening.

Everything I did from the time I took Coltec's head until Methos brought me to the underground spring _might_ be forgivable, because I honestly hadn't had any control over my actions. My memories are shadowy, as if the whole episode were a nightmare. I know that it wasn't a dream -- I tried to kill Richie, I assaulted Davis and practically raped his wife, and worst of all, I killed Sean, a gentle man who spent his life healing others.

As terrible as all that is, perhaps it's forgivable because I truly wasn't myself. What isn't forgivable is what I did afterward. I should have been on a plane back to the States to find Richie. Instead I screwed up a few more lives during that business with Kassim, sublimated my guilt about Richie by trying to train the clueless Cimmoli, and flew off to Moscow to fool around in a _circus_, for God's sake.

When I encountered Warren Cochrane that winter and learned what he had done, I shuddered with horror. There but for the grace of God and Joe Dawson go I, I thought. Little did I know.

Yes, I did try to call Richie from Paris. I made inquiries and tried to find him from six thousand miles away, but my efforts weren't nearly enough, not after what I'd done. I hadn't killed Richie after taking Coltec's head, but I'd done the next worst thing -- I'd shattered his faith. A few phone calls didn't go nearly far enough to right that wrong, and my excuses rang hollow in my own ears when I spoke them the next time we met.

But somehow, we worked past it and went on. Went on with our friendship, even as Richie struggled to find his own path. Ultimately, it was Richie's devotion to me, his desire to show that he would stick by me no matter how crazy I seemed, that cost him his life.

That and my incredible stupidity.

I sigh and turn over again as I think about all of this, all of my mistakes over the past few years. Finally, I declare the morning's brood officially over and climb out of bed. I'll work out and then do...something. Maybe I'll find Joe today. He's another person to whom I have a lot of making up to do. I ask so much of him and give so little in return. Just as I have with nearly everyone in my life, come to think of it.

~~~~~~~

Time seems to pass so slowly now, the days drag on endlessly, one after the other. I haven't spent a summer in Paris in a long time, and I'd forgotten how hot and miserable it is.

A few events break up the monotony. I unwrap my sword, for the first time in one year and eight days, when my old friend Willie Kingsley goes on a vengeful rampage. As angry as he makes me, I am so very grateful that I do not have to kill another old friend. Not long after, I actually use my sword to take that bastard Devon Marek's head. My first Quickening since Richie's. My first Quickening in one year, two months and sixteen days. Killing a selfish piece of work like Marek should have been...satisfying, if not pleasant. At one time, it would have been. Now it's just an empty exercise.

Summer is just beginning to turn to fall when I meet Katya; a beautiful and loving woman, tormented by her own ghosts, her own desire for vengeance. I've been where she is, I know how all-consuming the hate and pain can be. She thinks she's so tough, but it's so easy to see underneath. She's grown used to fighting and expects conflict -- but I know that the slightest bit of warmth will melt the ice with which she shrouds herself. Bringing her a moment of joy lifts my own heart, and the dream stays away during the night we spend together.

But my own shroud quickly descends again when she asks me if I've ever raised a child. I shake my head so quickly, even as my subconscious whispers _liar_. It doesn't matter that Richie was seventeen when we met. It doesn't matter how many times we denied it to each other. I was the closest thing Richie ever had to a father, and he was the closest I ever had to a son. The Greeks believed that special torments awaited those who killed members of their own family. The Furies, a trio of vengeful goddesses, would torment the murderer until he or she finally became irrevocably insane.

Oh, and if you killed a family member by mistake? The Furies would still come after you. They were uninterested in mitigating circumstances. They drove Orestes mad for killing his murderous mother, even though the god Apollo himself had commanded Orestes to kill her to avenge his father, Agamemnon. But the Furies were uninterested in the young prince's motives, and they drove him slowly insane.

Katya left to find her own path soon after that conversation, and the dream returned. It's just as well that she left, for her sake. Sooner or later, she would have been in the dream too, on one side of the river or the other.

~~~~~~~

The calendar says that it's autumn, but it's quickly become winter for me. The season when everything dies.

I'm walking through the streets of Paris toward Liam O'Rourke's command performance. Just a few hours ago, Amanda had been in my arms, her face flushed with passion. Earlier tonight, Joe Dawson had been in his club, swapping stories with a friend. And now they're both in danger because of me.

_Again._

Nobody else. Not because of me -- not anymore, I'd told Methos. And I mean it. Joe and Amanda are members of _my_ family -- my clan. And I won't give the Furies any more reasons to torment me. I would sooner give up my head than see Joe and Amanda in my dream along with all the rest. No more friends die -- not by my hand, and not because of me.

The thought of Methos gives me pause. Yet another person I haven't done right by. God, my feelings about Methos are so complex it could take a hundred years to sort them out. About the only thing that's certain is that I've been incredibly unfair to him. I should have apologized at the barge -- it may have been my last chance.

"Goodbye," he'd said.

I had paused, remembering the tradition Connor and I had kept over the years. We never say good bye; it's too final, almost tempting fate that one of us will lose our head before we have the chance to meet again. And I hadn't liked the tone of Methos' voice, either. "I think you mean good luck, don't you?"

"Of course...that's what I meant." But it didn't sound like Methos. His voice was tentative, uncertain. I left without looking back.

What does he know that I don't?

~~~~~~~

"Wait!" I cry out, asking O'Rourke to belay his order to kill Amanda and Joe. My inelegant attempt to ambush him had failed. Methos had been right. O'Rourke had mortal thugs on his side, and he wasn't playing by the Rules.

There's no way out of the corner O'Rourke's backed me into. If I try anything, either Amanda or Joe or both of them are sure to die. That's an unacceptable risk, and once I reach that conclusion, the words flow so easily from my lips.

"You can have me," I tell him.

"MacLeod!" Joe objects.

"Keep out of it, Joe," I snap. I'm not angry, but I am determined. This is my choice, not his. "My life for Tara's," I offer O'Rourke. "I'll lay down my sword."

Joe shouts, "You tell him to go to hell!"

Exasperated, I respond, "Shut up, Joe! Please!" I turn toward the Irishman. "C'mon, O'Rourke, what do you think? Blood for blood?"

"And in return?" he asks.

"Your sworn oath -- on the memory of Tara -- that when I'm dead, you let them go." It's a dangerous bargain -- I'm trusting the honor of a man who's already proven that he has none. But what other choice is there?

He considers a moment. "You have it."

The pact is made, the decision final. I look over at my Watcher, this man who knows so much about me. "I want to say good bye," I tell O'Rourke.

"Put down the sword," he orders.

And I do, without a second thought. Hideo Koto's sword, the beautiful blade that has served me so well for more than two hundred years, clatters to the concrete floor like so much junk.

I approach Joe. "So what's the plan?" he wants to know.

I lift my eyebrows and grimace slightly. The plan is for me to die and for you and Amanda to walk out of here, Joe. As the meaning of my expression sinks in, his eyes become desperate, pleading with me to reconsider. I don't have any other choice, my friend. I can't let you die for me, don't you understand that?

"For God's sake, MacLeod, you can't do this."

"No one else dies because of me, Joe." I hold his eyes for a moment and then glance over at Amanda's crumpled form. "Tell her I love her."

Then I look over at O'Rourke. The face of Death -- my death, anyway. He's almost smiling. The moment of revenge he's anticipated for fifty years is upon him. I can't blame him for his feelings, only his methods.

He's holding my katana. A Celt himself, he has the sense of poetry to kill me with my own sword. I stare at him for a moment and feel the first chill of fear.

"It's all crap, MacLeod," Joe breaks into my thoughts. "The whole damn thing."

I smile in return. I have more that I need to say, things I need to tell him and words to ask him to carry to others. To Connor. To Methos.

But there's no time. Death is waiting, holding my sword. "I'll see you around," I tell him. My Watcher. My friend. If I say the words good bye I'll cry, and I refuse to give O'Rourke that satisfaction.

I walk back to him, to Death. The fear has passed; it's only relief I'm feeling now. It's going to be over, and I won't be responsible for anyone else's death. Ever again.

I reach O'Rourke, and I consider a moment before dropping to my knees, leaving my feet for the last time. This is going to be difficult enough for Joe to witness, and I won't make it any uglier for him than it has to be.

I never thought it would end like this. I always thought it would be quick, during a fight. Or that maybe I'd be unconscious when it happened. I never thought I would die because I'd chosen to lay down my sword.

In nearly four hundred and six years, the thought had never seriously crossed my mind.

But it's the only path open to me now -- the river is narrow and has no tributaries from which to choose. I won't see Joe and Amanda die because of me, because of the choices I made fifty years ago. They would not join all of the others along the river banks. I'd chosen to make O'Rourke my enemy, and now I would take the consequences.

The cold, steel blade of my own katana is at the back of my neck. It's almost over now, just a few more moments. I can see Joe turn his head away out of the corner of my eye. I don't blame him. I'm glad Amanda's unconscious. Let her final memory of me be the one we shared earlier tonight, when she was moaning her passion as she twisted and writhed in my arms. No need for this to be the way she remembers me.

It seems like forever before O'Rourke lifts the sword. He is no longer part of my reality, I've already started to leave this world. I let all of the mixed feelings wash over me in this one final moment, confident that for once in my life, I've made the right decision. I remember every person I've loved and all of those I've killed. I can still see every face. Whatever's waiting for me, I cherish the glimmer of hope that I might see some of them again. Tessa... Richie...

The shots ring out from behind us, and I've no idea what's happening. I see Methos and the gun, and my reflexes kick in. O'Rourke is furious and pointing his gun at me. Joe, Amanda, Methos -- where are they? I try to account for them all in my visual range, but it's no use. One of O'Rourke's bullets finds purchase in my chest. I stumble, hit my head, and then there's nothing but darkness.

~~~~~~~

Deliverance comes about in the oddest ways, Darius told me once. His words have never resonated more clearly than they have tonight.

Somehow, miraculously, my friends and I have escaped death once again, and O'Rourke is dead. I still feel dazed by the Quickening, unsure of all that's happened. Methos said I was only unconscious for a few minutes, but the dream seemed so unbelievably real.

I need to collect my thoughts, and I step outside into the chill, early morning air. A few hours ago I was sure I'd never live to see another sunrise, but now it's just around the corner.

I let the memories wash over me again. It's different this time, somehow. Easier to see the love than the rejection. Easier to remember the friendship than the loss. Easier to recall the times I'd helped people instead of the times I'd failed.

Yes, I have memories to be proud of along with memories that cause me shame. And I have people in my life who love me, and to whom I'd expressed precious little love in return in the past eighteen months. I turn to go inside, to try to begin remedying that lapse.

~~~~~~~

One hour and two bottles of champagne later, everyone is ready to call it a night. Amanda rearranges her travel plans while Joe and Methos prepare to return to their respective apartments. Joe leaves first with a smile and a warm handshake, and then Amanda's taxi arrives. She kisses me tenderly, pats my cheek, and then turns to go. How could she not have known what she means to me? How had I almost missed the chance to tell her? Methos picks up his coat. He's been very quiet since I'd spoken to him earlier.

"You know, I don't know who or what you are, Methos, and I know you don't want to hear this, but you did teach me something," I'd told him. "You taught me life's about change. About learning to accept who you are, good and bad. And I thank you for that."

The coldness of my words, no matter how sincerely I'd intended them, suddenly hits me like a ton of bricks. What the hell had I said to him? I roll my eyes at my own tactlessness.

"'Night, Mac. Take care of yourself," he turns and starts to leave.

"Methos, wait," I call to him.

He turns, looking at me quizzically.

His eyes meet mine, and all of a sudden, I feel clumsy in comparison to his easy grace.

"What I said before...I didn't mean it quite like it sounded," I stammer.

His lip quirks at the corner just a little. "So what did you mean?" He sounds honestly curious, not flip or sarcastic.

An excellent question. He has taught me about change and self-acceptance. And it probably is true that he didn't want to hear it; he'd never wanted to be considered a role model or a sage elder.

It was the "good and bad" part that was a vast oversimplification.

If my "dream," or whatever it was, had shown me anything, it was that it hadn't been some inherent evil that had led Methos to Kronos. Not in the "present" of the dream, and not three thousand years ago.

Pain. Anger. Hopelessness. The futility of loving mortals -- the inevitability of their deaths. The awareness that no matter how or why you attempt to do the right thing, someone with an agenda of the wrong thing is always lurking just around the corner.

Does any of this sound familiar, MacLeod?

But that's what had led the Methos I'd seen in my dream back to Kronos. Not the love of the smell of blood, and certainly not a love of material possessions. Just a desire to salve the pain. After all, how could a man without a conscience feel pain?

But if "good and bad" are oversimplifications, then "I don't know who or what you are" is just wrong. Or just a lie.

I know what Methos is. He contradicts everything I believe in. Where maintaining a sense of identity is paramount to me, he merely blends in. Where I rush in where angels fear to tread, he chooses his "standard response to unforeseen dilemmas perfected over many centuries" -- nothing. Where I look at how a decision affects the people involved, he shrugs and observes that "civilizations rise and fall."

I know what Methos is. He honors the ideals I hold most dear. He offered me his head when he thought it might help me defeat a dangerous enemy. He chose to take a challenge for me when he thought I was in no shape to do so. He's saved my life at least twice, most recently this very night.

Yes, I know what Methos is. He is the most valued of friends. Someone who challenges me and makes me think. Someone who supports me when I need it. Someone who's there when I need him most. Like tonight.

"You're a friend. That's who and what you are. Saying anything less...was unworthy of you."

His eyes drop briefly and then lift to meet mine again. "It's...been hard to tell."

I know what he means. We'd never really talked after Bordeaux. He'd disappeared for months, and when he finally resurfaced during the Keane mess, I was too bound up in my own emotional baggage to try to resolve things between us. We'd seen each other a few times, mostly while listening to Joe's band, but before we could ever find the right time to talk, Byron turned up -- and from then on things went to hell in a hand basket with stunning speed. The last time I had seen Methos before tonight, I was kneeling over Richie's dead body, begging him to take my head. How incredibly selfish and unfair that was.

"I know it. And I haven't been much of one lately, have I?"

He grins a little, pulling his coat more tightly around his body. The fire's died down, and at three a.m. in November, the barge tends to be chilly. At least I still remember how to be a decent host. "Here, sit," I tell him, moving to rekindle the embers.

He shrugs off his coat, dropping it over the arm of the low divan. He wraps his arms around himself for a moment, but the fireplace quickly heats the small space. The champagne bottle is empty, so I pour Scotch instead and sit across from him, my back to the warmth of the fire.

He takes a sip and then says, "MacLeod, you've been through a perfectly awful time. I've been there, I know how bad it is."

His quiet empathy is almost more than I can bear. Even though I can once again see the value in living, the pain hasn't disappeared. I thought it was under control, but it surges up so quickly again. I try to push it away by changing the subject. "You saved my life tonight. I didn't thank you."

An expression of amusement mixed with irony crosses Methos' face, partly hidden by his glass. "I wasn't sure you would want to thank me."

"Then why did you do it?" I want to know.

His eyes are steady now, meeting mine without hesitation. "Because you are too important to lose."

His invocation of the words he'd said to me during the Dark Quickening prompts me to swallow quickly, even though talking to Methos in that church is only a hazy memory. He'd saved my life then, too.

But I still don't know what the hell he means. I want to ask why, to demand to know what about _me_ is so damned special that it's worth risking his five thousand year-old head. But it feels like it would belittle his actions to ask.

"I've been where you are. I know how tempting it can be to consider chucking it all in."

The empathy is there again, and this time I can't beat back the emotion, the anger, the pain. "Do you? Have you ever killed someone you thought of as a son?" My voice sounds harsh, choked, even to my own ears.

I'm ready for a quick rejoinder about the perils of treating students as children, but he doesn't answer. He just keeps meeting my eyes with his own steady gaze. "Do you still have nightmares, Duncan?" he asks softly.

Oh God, he does know. I only nod at first, not trusting myself to speak. "Not just nightmares...all the time. Like the Furies." The allusion is out of my mouth before I can think to stop it.

He knows the reference, of course, and simply nods. "But what happened to them?"

I have no idea what he's talking about. "What happened to whom?"

"The Furies. They weren't always merciless bitches, Mac. You're only remembering half the story."

I think a moment, but shake my head. I still don't know what he's talking about.

"They tormented Orestes after he killed his mother, but then what happened? Athena, the Goddess of Wisdom and Justice, intervened on his behalf. She persuaded the Furies that Orestes had been cleansed of his guilt." He pauses a moment, watching my face. "It was mercy, MacLeod. When the Furies were able to show mercy, they changed too. They were transformed into the Eumenides, goddesses who protected the penitent instead of tormenting wrongdoers."

The story registers from somewhere in the deep recesses of my mind, but I shake my head. "I don't have a goddess to intervene on my behalf."

"You have your friends," he replies quietly. "Nobody wants you to hold this guilt anymore, Duncan, but the only person who can intervene on your behalf is you. You can forgive almost anything, it seems, except yourself."

Why am I clinging on to the guilt so tightly? Embracing it to the point that it almost led me to my death tonight? The painful truth is suddenly right in front of me, and Methos' unflinching gaze won't let me avoid it any longer. I don't want to cry in front of him, but I can't stop the tears any more. "It's all I have left of him." If I let go of the guilt, what will be left?

I didn't see him move from the sofa, but Methos is beside me, pulling me to my feet. His long arms wrap firmly around me, and my head drops easily to his steady shoulder as I try to choke back a sob. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he says with warm, gentle humor, much like the day we met. "You know that isn't true. You feel guilty because you know that if you let go of the guilt, you might actually let yourself enjoy the memories. How's that for a complex puzzle?"

I laugh a little through the tears, recognizing the truth in his words. "He'll always be here, Mac, as long as you're here to remember him." My own words tossed back at me once again. It seems like we're always doing that to each other. I'm ashamed that I've broken down in front of him, but he doesn't seem the slightest bit phased. He takes my shoulders in his hands and pushes me gently away. I've left a huge wet spot on his shoulder, and my cheeks flush at the evidence of my tears.

He's blurry through my wet lashes, but I can see his clear eyes gazing at me steadily, his calm understanding quietly reassuring. His hands move from my shoulders to cup my face, and then he leans forward, kissing the tears away from my cheeks before he gently kisses me on the lips.

I'm not as surprised as he probably thinks. The attraction between us is of long standing, and it's not one-sided, either. I've just ignored it most of the time, for a whole mess of reasons, not the least of which is that it's been over a hundred years since I've had a male lover. Brian Cullen. I ended up killing him, too.

The thought makes me flinch, but he misunderstands the reason. He thinks he's made a mistake. Has he? Can I acknowledge this now, admit that my connection to him is stronger than friendship? "Duncan..." he drops his hands and steps back. "I don't know why that happened, it shouldn't have."

Shouldn't it? Shouldn't it have happened years ago? I stand and close the distance between us, shaking my head, taking his face in my hands this time. "Yes, it should," I say. "It's long overdue."

I kiss him, the barest brush of lips at first, exquisite tenderness sought and returned. He lets me explore slowly, tracing his lips with my own. I drop feather-light kisses on the end of his nose, his forehead, his eyelids. When I move to his cheeks, I can feel their warmth under my lips, and I can feel his breath starting to quicken. His hands reach out to caress the back of my neck, mirroring my gentle exploration of his face.

I stop kissing his face just long enough to look at him, and his expression steals all of the air from my lungs. His eyes are lightly closed, his cheeks are flushed pink, his lips are slightly parted. He looks so incredibly young...and so delectable. I can't resist the temptation of his mouth a moment longer, and I pull him close again, kissing him on the mouth this time. His lips open under mine, and I try to stifle a moan as our tongues meet for the first time. The usual post-Quickening arousal had been dampened by the pure emotion of this night, or so I'd thought, but it asserts itself now with stunning force. I am instantly hard, instantly aching for Methos as his tongue plunges into my mouth, meeting me with equal strength, equal desire.

Or maybe it's not the Quickening at all. Maybe I just want him. _Need_ him. Need what only he can give me.

Maybe I always have.

We part for a moment, both of us drawing much needed oxygen into our lungs. Our eyes meet, and I try to read what I see there.

"MacLeod..." he whispers. "Duncan. I'm not sure what's brought this on...too much emotion tonight, too many feelings churning inside."

He's right, but not in the way he thinks he is. There have been too many lies between us, too many times we've said one thing while feeling something else. God, we've been dancing around this for years, this attraction between us. Silly moments. A leer in a doorway. A paintbrush across a nose. A territorial mating dance through my loft. And at some point, it grew into more than an attraction, didn't it? Our lives became hopelessly intertwined as we witnessed some of each other's most desperate moments. The Dark Quickening. Bordeaux. Richie's death. Kneeling before Liam O'Rourke.

When did the idea of life without him become unthinkable? At which point in our journey from flirtation and friendship to frustration and betrayal and back again did the most powerful emotion become...love?

"I want this," I try to speak, but my voice is a harsh whisper. Now that realization is flooding my brain, I have so much more I want to say to him.

But words aren't necessary. He's looking into my eyes, and unlike my attempt to glean his thoughts, I'm sure that mine might just as well be written across my forehead.

He leans forward and kisses me again, plunging his tongue harshly into my mouth. This time he holds my head still, tilting my chin at the perfect angle. As his tongue presses against mine, he pulls me close against him. We're exactly the same height -- when he isn't slouching -- and our bodies align perfectly, as if they were constructed to fit together, like puzzle pieces finding their long-lost companions after spending an eternity apart in the bottom of a cardboard box.

The heat of his mouth and the silken feel of his tongue against mine are almost overwhelming. I feel light-headed, dizzy from the physical stimulation and the emotion that accompanies it. He releases my head, and his hands slide down my sides and meet at the small of my back before moving even lower. As he pulls me toward him, he thrusts his hips forward just enough so that I can feel his hardness pressing against my own.

My loose slacks are suddenly far too constricting. I want to be in bed, naked beside him.

Great minds think alike. I smile a bit as he says, "Bed, Mac."

I nod and take his hand, leading him over to the raised platform that serves as my bed. I turn to face him again, letting my eyes rake over him once more. Methos' form is spare and lean, but firmly muscled and very appealing. He lends the simple black button-down shirt and slacks he's wearing far more elegance than they deserve. His boneless slouch is pure affectation, a trap for the unwary who might think his posture is a sign of laziness or carelessness. It's nowhere in evidence now.

He's watching me again, reading my mind, I'm sure. I kiss him and run my hands down his arms before I pull the shirt out of his slacks and begin to undo the buttons. I feel clumsy, fumbling with the buttons, but finally the silk slides from his arms, and I can feel the smoothness of his skin beneath my fingers. He does the same, discarding my turtleneck, and no sooner is it off my head than he reaches for me, kissing me again as we hastily kick off our shoes. His hands trace down my chest, and as he gently teases my nipples I stifle a moan, feeling the tug directly in my groin.

Methos kisses me as he unbuttons my slacks and his own. His mouth is hot, demanding, but then he pulls back, and his eyes meet mine again, probing once more. "Are you sure this is what you want? I'm not sure if I can deal with Scottish guilt tomorrow morning."

I throw my head back and laugh. He knows me so well, even if he doesn't understand me much of the time. Bittersweet emotions are coursing through me -- admitting my feelings for Methos means that I have to move on with my life. I have to let go, to leave the grief and the guilt behind and really move on. Unless I'm willing to do that, I can't make love with him. It's not fair to offer him anything less than everything I have, everything I am, without all the baggage that's been weighing me down.

Am I ready to do that?

_The only person who can intervene on your behalf is you._

Mercy. Redemption. Transforming the Furies into loving, protective goddesses. There would never be a better reason than Methos, than what he's offering me right now, not if I live to be as old as he is.

I look back at him, and a few unbidden tears slip down my face. "No regrets. Not this time."

He tilts his head to the side just a bit, reaching up to stroke my cheek, his fingers becoming wet. "Why, then?"

My voice is choked again, and I have no answer, no explanation for my tears. Relief? No, much more than that, more than I can put to words.

"Make love with me. No regrets, no guilt. I promise." He's still peering into my eyes, and I wonder what he sees there. Does he see what he's done for me, can he ever know?

He must have seen what he needed, because he reaches for me again, and kisses me this time with a fury and possessiveness I've never experienced before. His mouth doesn't merely explore mine, it takes control and owns it. His tongue darts rapidly, tasting my lips, teeth, tongue. His hands tangle in my hair, pulling me closer against his body. Methos thrusts a thigh between my legs, and I can feel his arousal. Every inch of it. The thought of his erection leaves me light-headed, and as my knees start to buckle, he pushes me down on the bed.

He smiles, a warm but slightly dangerous smile, as he kneels between my spread thighs, his hands caressing my chest. I almost jerk underneath him as his fingers find my nipples again, tweaking them gently before trailing down my chest and over the heat of my cock.

Methos' hands dance across my hips, touching me far too gently. I arch my back, thrusting my hips up to meet him, and he presses me gently back against the bed.

"Patience," he says softly. "It's a virtue and all..."

Probably, but I'm not feeling all that virtuous right now. What I am feeling is a desperate need to touch and be touched, to love and be loved. "Methos..." I groan, probably sounding plaintive and needy. He must understand because he slides down the bed a bit, finally unzipping my slacks and easing them down my hips. They slip to the floor as Methos kneels above me, smiling, watching my eyes as he unzips his slacks and then pulls his boxers down and off with them.

I moan again as I see his cock for the first time. I reach my hands out to touch, but he captures them in his own and presses my wrists against the bed. "Not yet, Duncan," he whispers. He leans over to kiss me, and our bodies stretch out against each other, bare except for the thin cotton of my briefs. He releases my hands, and I reach around to pull him closer, stroking the soft, smooth skin of his back and feeling the tight, muscled ass quiver a bit under my touch. We are kissing nearly frantically now, unable to get enough of each other, our cocks and tongues pressed together. The heat of his mouth and the heat of his cock are making me crazy, the desire spinning nearly out of control.

He pulls away just slightly, enough for our eyes to meet. His are darker than usual, the pupils dilated, burning with emotion I can feel reflected in my own. He starts sliding down my body again, and I resist the temptation to toss him over on his back, because I can tell how much he likes this from the wonderful sounds he makes as he kisses and bites at my chest. Finally, with a wily smile, he reaches my hips, his fingers toying with the elastic on my underwear. He nuzzles me, I can feel his nose and lips against my cock through the thin cotton, and I can't help but groan and thrust my hips. I want his hands, his mouth, his cock against mine. I want it all, and I've no idea why. It was never like this with Brian or the others, it was more like a rough and tumble spar, a perfect mixture of sex and violence. It wasn't like this...there wasn't this hot, desperate passion that pushes my heart into my throat and numbs my brain with the intensity of it.

The sensations assault me one after the other -- the air he's gently exhaling, the friction of the cotton moving against me, the light touch of his fingers. I don't even realize that he's eased the briefs down my hips until I'm surrounded by excruciatingly intense, hot, wet pressure. I glance down and see him splayed across my thighs, his beautiful profile in view, sucking me into his mouth and down his throat. My hands reach down of their own accord to touch the silky hair, to caress his neck and guide his head. He's not teasing anymore but sucking firmly, moving up and down rhythmically, teasing the tip of my cock with his tongue as he withdraws then dragging it down my length. I can't help but push my hips upward; I need to be as far inside that warm, wonderful place as I possibly can. A few more thrusts, a few more moments with no sound but my moaning and the noise of his lips on my cock, and I tumble over the edge, pushing his head into my hips and crying out as I explode inside of his mouth. He keeps sucking intently, and I can feel him swallow around me as my hips thrust uncontrollably into his throat.

He doesn't release me until I finally stop shaking, coming down slowly from the intensity of my orgasm, light and color and textures still swirling in my brain. I look down as he finally lets me slip from his mouth, my abandoned underwear almost an afterthought as he slides the briefs down and off my legs.

I'm satiated, but not nearly content, and neither is Methos. He lets me catch my breath for a moment before he lies on top of me, rubbing his rock-hard erection against my body and kissing me until I can't breathe. I want to please him, give him something close to what he's given me. In any way that he wants it.

As his mouth moves to my neck, I shudder, unable to believe that I'm already feeling a stirring in my groin so soon after that incredible orgasm. "Methos," I say, my voice a dry rasp.

"Duncan," he responds before returning to bite my throat once again.

"What do you want? How can I give you what you've given me," I want to know. "Anything," I add.

That must give him pause, because he stops and looks up at me, brushing hair out of my eyes. "Anything? Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply, and I mean it. Whatever he wants. I reach for him, and this time he lets me touch and stroke him. He feels so good under my fingers, and I love the way his head rolls back, his mouth slightly open. I wrap my hand around him fully, stroking from the base of his cock to the tip, tracing my thumb gently over the opening at the end, spreading the drop of liquid there. "Anything," I repeat.

He gazes straight into my eyes. "I want to fuck you. Will you let me do that?" he asks.

The straightforward request, tinged with the heat of his desire, stirs my groin further, and I gasp my answer. "Yes," I reply without hesitation. God, yes, I want it, I want to feel him throbbing inside of me, every last inch of him.

"Do you have anything?" he asks.

It takes a moment for me to realize what he means, and I release his cock reluctantly as I nod and reach for the night table. I quickly find a small tube near some condoms, and I hand it to him, trusting him with my body as I'd already trusted him with my emotions. I start to roll over on my stomach, but he stops me and gently pushes me back on the bed. "No...I want to see you," he whispers, leaning over to press his tongue inside my ear.

His mouth keeps moving, along my ear, my throat, my face, and I'm barely aware of him pushing my thighs apart and kneeling between them. I wrap my arms around his neck, only flinching a little when I feel one, then two fingers press inside me, gently stretching and probing. My hips nearly rise off the bed again when he brushes against my prostate. "Oh, God," I gasp.

Methos watches me as he starts to push inside, and I close my eyes to make sure he doesn't see anything that might make him doubt how much I want this. I do want it, and I don't care if it hurts a little along the way. I want to surround him, to feel him pulsing and moving inside of me. He pushes suddenly, and the pain forces out a gasp I can't stifle, but then he's all the way inside, and an incredible surge of bliss replaces the pain. I open my eyes as I reach for him, but I stop as I see the expression on his face. His eyes are closed, his head slightly rolled back, and the look of sheer pleasure on his face is nearly my undoing. His eyes snap open at my moan, and I pull him toward me, pressing firmly against him. His mouth finds mine again, and I gasp as his cock and tongue thrust into me at the same moment. I lift my hips to meet him, my cock once again fully aroused, pressing against his belly. I don't hesitate for a moment when he slips his arms under my bent knees, and I shamelessly open myself to him as much as I can.

His thrusts are grazing my prostate, causing an aching, almost painfully incredible sensation each time. Methos is losing control now, and his thrusts become deeper and more harsh, punctuated by low grunts as he tries to push even further inside of me. I can't get enough, and I urge him on, sucking on his lips, his tongue, feeling the silk of his hair and the softness of his skin under my fingers as I try to open myself even more to him. He stills a moment and pulls his head away from me, and I grasp it in both hands and watch as he closes his eyes and thrusts once more before he starts to come, pulsing inside of me and crying out at the same time. My cock is untouched, but the expression on his face is more than enough. I cry out as I come with him, my ass contracting around his cock for long, ecstatic moments. It's several minutes before our gasps slow, the tremors subside, and we're both still, wrapped tightly in each other's arms.

Neither of us moves for awhile, but finally, my eyes still closed, I can feel Methos slip from me, and I try not to whimper. I feel empty once he's gone, but it's only a few seconds before intense emotions expand to fill the space he's left. My eyes are still closed, but he must have slipped from the bed, because when I open them he has a damp cloth in his hand. He carefully wipes my stomach and thighs clean before tossing it away.

He lays down again and wraps around me tightly, my head tucked under his chin. "Are you okay?" he asks quietly.

"Yes," I answer, touched by the concern. "I'm much more than okay." We have a lot to talk about, I suppose, but nothing needs to be said right now, not at this perfect moment.

He presses tightly against me, and I can feel his heart beating more profoundly than my own. He kisses me softly on the top of my head, and soon he begins breathing deeply and evenly.

As content as I feel, I can't sleep yet, thoughts tumbling over and over in my mind. The wound left by Richie's death hasn't healed completely -- it never will -- but for the first time, it feels like it has begun to close. Enough to allow new cells to grow. Enough to cherish the memories and move on with life.

It doesn't make the slightest bit of sense, does it? How can the man who called himself Death be the one to grant me absolution for my own sins? How can he transform my Furies into protective goddesses?

Can love cleanse a soul? Remove an unspeakable burden?

Or perhaps...perhaps he didn't remove it. Maybe he just shared some of it.

Finally, just when the first signs of daylight are beginning to seep through the portholes, I doze off in his arms. The river is in my dream again, but it's different this time. Like before, the river eventually narrows, but not into the hell of my nightmare. The banks remain empty and calm. And when I see the island in the middle of the river, it doesn't slip farther away as I paddle toward it. Someone is there. Not a ghost to torment me -- just someone welcoming me, smiling. Waiting for me.

He has been all along.

~ the end ~

_Originally posted October 1998._


End file.
